


Can't Believe I Never Let You Know How Much I Need You Here

by Ismene_Jane



Series: Sweet Boy 'verse [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, And Clint's got some trust issues, Angst, BAMF Natasha Romanov, But Phil's kinda dumb, Cheese, Clint Needs a Hug, Coulson Lives, Crying, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub Undertones, I think I've successfully tagged the shit outta this, M/M, Oral Sex, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury Friendship, Phil Needs a Hug, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Protective Phil Coulson, So much angsty fluff, Songfic, Sub Clint Barton, i just want my boys to be happy, let me know if I missed something, okay, so much cheese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:50:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ismene_Jane/pseuds/Ismene_Jane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil Coulson fucks up.</p><p>Fortunately, he has a very diverse iPod library and some truly great friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Believe I Never Let You Know How Much I Need You Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pegasus_Eridana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pegasus_Eridana/gifts).



> So I was listening to the song "Fight" by Lee DeWyze and this fic just... popped into my head. For some reason it hit me as an absolute Phlint song, and for some reason I had to write it right away. Then it became three thousand words.
> 
> Then I gave the longest title in creation.
> 
> Then it turned into a prequel to Sweet Boy. I don't even know.
> 
> You can find the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFPIzdKq3go  
> I suggest listening to it as I don't just write all the lyrics out. 
> 
> Beta'd by the gorgeous Pegasus_Eridana. Who this is also dedicated to. For Phlint reasons. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Phil Coulson fucked up.

Granted, it wasn’t the first (or the second, or even the fifth) time this had happened. It wasn’t hardly the biggest fuck-up of Phil’s long career of fucking up. He’d come back from the dead and not let people who cared for him know it for _years_. This, everyone agreed, was the worst.

He’d never forget the way that Clint and Natasha had looked at him when he finally re-surfaced. He’d convinced Nick that it was time after many months of dealing with Hydra and just… avoiding the whole “Surprise! I’m not dead” thing. He had _known_ that he needed to tell the Avengers (and particularly, the former members of Strike Team Delta) he was still alive. He just… hadn’t.

The truth is that Phil had been embarrassed. Embarrassed and insecure and unsure how Clint or Natasha would react. He hadn’t really cared what the others thought (okay, maybe Captain America, a _little_ bit. But Phil defied anyone to brave Steve Rogers’ I’m-very-disappointed-in-you face and come out of it unscathed), but Natasha and Clint? He’d cared. He’d been scared. Turns out rightfully so.

Natasha had hit him. Clint’s face had screwed up in pain before he literally _ran_ from the room.

Then there had been the quiet, stern talking-to. And groveling. The talking-to had been Natasha as the other Avengers inched themselves from the room. The only one who stopped on the way out was Steve and yep, there it was, the _face._

Phil hadn’t blamed the rest of the team. The way that Natasha had of talking to you angrily without raising her voice was more terrifying than getting screamed at by pretty much anyone else. While she spoke, Phil had eyed her nervously for the barest hint that she was reaching for a hidden weapon. Fortunately, she had been in a non-violent mood and had been satisfied with calmly intoning that Phil had “disappointed” her and “let Clint down”. That he had “failed as a handler as a friend.”

That, mixed with the way her eyes had flashed every time she mentioned Clint or how much they both “cared” for Phil, was worse than getting stabbed. By the end of it, Phil had been silently praying for a knife to the chest. That way, he’d have matching scars.

Then had come the groveling: this had been Phil pleading with both Natasha and the air-vent (which was where he’d known Clint was most certainly hiding) to forgive him. He’d given every excuse before giving up and just admitting that it had been fear and stupidity that’d kept him from revealing his still-living status.

The whole thing had ended with Natasha staring at him in her I’m-so-angry-but-I-love-you-so-I’ll-forgive-you way before hugging Phil so briefly he thought he’d imagined it and then telling him that if he ever fucked up like that again, she’d make sure he stayed dead.

So this fuck-up? Yeah, not _quite_ that bad.

But still, _bad._

Because after he’d come back from the grave, and groveled to the Clint-shielding air vent; Clint had come to him less than three hours later and had kissed him so hard it felt like an attack. Phil had been surprised, but so happy about this development that he’d ignored the questions burning in his brain and just followed his heart. The heart that told him that he should be fucking Clint Barton.

Often. And enthusiastically.

So they’d been carrying on that way. Clint never _technically_ forgave him for being gone all that time; because that would have required talking. They never talked. They just had sex.

A lot of sex.

A lot of the greatest sex of Phil’s life.

And sometimes fucking Clint felt like he was still pleading (Clint riding him so hard he couldn’t breathe, muttering about “fucking assholes who disappear”; Clint wrapping himself around Phil like an overzealous octopus as he came, his harsh breathing sounding almost like crying but Phil could never be sure; Clint thrusting into Phil’s mouth as his hands tangled in what was left of Phil’s hair and _pulling_ , taking much-needed control); but sometimes it felt like something entirely different (Phil kissing Clint breathless as helpless tears leaked from the archer’s eyes as he shook into orgasm, looking at Phil like he was the most beautiful thing in the world; Clint nuzzling his cock before he sucked him, staring up at Phil with something like reverence in his eyes; those same eyes blowing wide open the first time Phil had slipped and called Clint “sweet boy” while Phil was seated deep inside Clint, waiting for him to adjust) that scared Phil a little and excited him a lot.

’Cause yeah. He might be a little (totally, completely) gone on Clint Barton. Maybe.

But they never _talked_ about it. Ever. Phil was too scared and insecure to ask for what he wanted, and Clint seemed happy to never speak of his feelings or the time Phil had been “dead” or… anything.

So today, when the Avengers and Fury (who had randomly showed up for this meeting, presumably to see how annoyed he could make Stark) and Director Coulson were in a meeting, Phil Coulson _fucked up_.

It was toward the end of the meeting; Captain Rogers (and no, Phil would _not_ call him Steve, no matter how many times Captain Rogers asked) had finished debriefing the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D about the latest catastrophe—giant robot octopi, of course—and Director Coulson had updated them all on the Hydra situation. They were all getting ready to finish up when Nick got a look in his good eye that Phil always knew meant serious trouble.

“So Cheese,” Fury said, smiling a little. “Anything else scary happening that the Avengers should know about?”

“Not sure we should be called the Avengers anymore,” Tony interjected. “Seeing as Agent here is still very much alive.”

“I was dead for a few months, Stark,” Phil responded, mechanically (they’d had this conversation many times). “Pretty sure it still counts.”

“And it’s _Director_ , Tony,” Clint interjected, as usual.

Tony harrumphed and glared at Nick and Clint in turn, which was also par-for-the-course.

“Anyway,” Phil continued, smiling as he caught Clint rolling his eyes at Tony’s antics, “The answer is ‘no’, Nick, nothing of import to report.” One of the best things about being Director of S.H.I.E.L.D was getting to call Nick by his first name in public.

Nick smiled and nodded, then said, “Then this meeting is adjourned, I suppose.”

They gathered their things but when Phil was almost out the door, Fury said;

“And what about your love-life, Cheese? I feel like that heart I fixed should be getting a work-out now and again.”

Phil didn’t dare look at Clint, instead he forced a smile and looked at the floor.

“Nothing of import, Nick,” he said, feeling the lie down in his bones but not knowing what else to do. “And fuck you for being so nosey.”

Nick laughed long and hard, but Phil barely noticed because his eye was caught by Clint going completely still. Phil turned to look at Clint more closely and caught the look of pain on the archer’s face before he shut it down. Phil’s heart lurched in his chest with something that was both hope and fear and reached out to stop Clint from leaving. But it was too late—Clint cleared his throat and strode purposefully from the room.

Phil turned back to Natasha and Nick; the only two people left in the room. Natasha’s eyebrows were raised and she was looking at Phil with utter exasperation and a generous helping of disdain.

“Fix this,” she said, in her succinct Natasha way, before following Clint out of the door.

Phil stood there for a moment, not equipped to handle the tumult of emotions that the last sixty seconds had caused.

“Nothing of import, huh?” Nick drawled from behind him.

Phil gulped and turned around. He knew that all of the blood had drained from his face.

“I—I don’t,” he stuttered. _Stuttered_. Director Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D did not _stutter_.

Nick raised an eyebrow and brushed past Phil, putting a reassuring hand on Phil’s shoulder as he went by.

“It’s okay, Cheese,” he said, halfway out the door. “I think this might actually be a good thing.”

“Uh,” Phil replied, still in shock. “Maybe.”

Fury patted him fondly a couple of times before exiting the room with a flourish.

 _Fuck_. Phil thought. _I fucked up._

***

He was in Lola before he could blink. The trip to his beloved car was filled with thoughts of how badly he’d fucked up and how maybe, just _maybe_ Clint had fallen for him, too. Maybe.

It’s not that Phil was really that insecure. It’s just that he’d always known that he wasn’t really a… catch. He was a bad-ass at his work but had never had that much luck with romance. Too much lying, not enough passion, and he’d never found someone who made him feel alive and whole.

Until he’d found that with Clint, and it scared the ever-loving _shit_ out of him.

Because Clint Barton? Was perfect. He had an incredible body that was just begging to be worshiped. He was so _so_ smart, but wasn’t an asshole about it like some people (Tony Stark) were. He brought out every protective instinct in Phil, and seemed to care for Phil just as much. He was perfectly compatible with Phil in every way; sexually, emotionally, mentally. And Phil had started imagining things. Crazy things.

Things like weddings. Things like coming home to Clint every night they both were home from a mission. Things like getting to kiss Clint whenever he wanted and tell the world that Clint was _his_ whenever he felt like it.

And it was fucking _terrifying_.

’Cause what if Clint didn’t feel the same way? What if all Clint needed was to work out his anger at Phil’s disappearance, at Phil being just one more person in a long line of people who’d let him down? What if that was all this was?

Phil hadn’t wanted to risk it.

And now he felt like such an idiot.

Because what good was almost dying if he didn’t fucking _live_?

Suddenly, he was remembering a song that was on the iPod that his team had forced on him as a half-joke, half-heartfelt gift. Melinda had bought it and each member had put on songs that they thought he might like.

Sometimes they were right, sometimes they were wrong, and sometimes they were so _laughably_ wrong that Phil ended up liking the song, ironically. This, though, was one of the ones he genuinely liked. He’d listened to it so many times without ever truly admitting to himself that it was because the song made him think of Clint.

He stopped at a red light and pulled out his iPod. Scrolling through the songs until he found the one he was looking for.

 _I wrote this song to make you feel alright today_ …

Phil smiled. Every line of this song, _every line_ , made him think of Clint. Clint’s tough outer shell, Clint’s beauty, how much he loved the hawk-eyed Avenger.

He never wanted to love him less.

The part that made him tear up (just a little, he wasn’t one to get carried away somewhere as public as his car) were the lines about running away. He wanted to be the one running next to Clint. Forever.

He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment complex in Brooklyn and pulled out his phone. He opened a new text to Clint and wrote:

 _I’m bad at this, so._  
 _What he said. Please come over._  
-P

As he let himself into his apartment, he found the video for the song on Youtube and pasted the link into the message. He hit send, feeling lighter than he’d felt in years.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

Phil shed his jacket and hung it up, heading for the kitchen. He pulled down the makings of pasta with sausage and vegetables, figuring that he might as well get some dinner going; he was never good at just sitting around, waiting for an answer.

But no matter what, at least he’d tried.

***

It turned out that Phil didn’t have to wait long.

He’d just drained the pasta and shut off the heat under the sausage and veggies when Clint knocked on his door.

He knew it was Clint because Clint always knocked in the same way: three short taps.

Phil threw the pasta back in the pot with some oil and covered both pots before running to the door. He opened it to find a Clint that he’d never seen before.

The Avenger was standing with one arm propped against the top of the doorway, looking as if staying upright was costing him all of his strength. His face was covered in tear tracks, and he looked more exhausted than Phil had ever seen him (which, after some of their missions, was really saying something). Phil’s normal thrum of concern for the safety and health of one Clint Barton ratcheted up about twelve notches and before he knew what he was doing, he pulled Clint into a tight hug.

“Did you mean it?” Clint’s voice came out rough, and almost scarred; as if it had been beaten bloody on the way out of his throat. Phil tightened his arms just a little more.

“How did you get here?” Phil countered, his concern making him go into Handler Coulson mode.

“Nat drove me,” Clint said, trying to pull away a little. “Did you mean it?”

Phil pulled back far enough so that Clint could see his eyes when he responded.

“So put your hand in mine,” he recited, putting all his love, all his heart into the words. He ignored the fact that he felt like a cheesy teenager from one of those 80s rom-coms Clint loved so much. This was too important to worry about how had they’d laugh about it, later. “We’ll be fine, I know. If you stay tonight, I promise I will show you that I will fight, and I will beg; I just want to hear you say that tonight we’ll be alright if you will stay.”

Clint’s eyes had gone a little misty as Phil spoke, and when Phil finished and smiled, Clint threw himself into Phil’s arms.

“Phil,” he whimpered into Phil’s shoulder.

Phil burrowed his face into Clint’s hair, breathing in the younger man.

“Will you stay, sweet boy? Please?”

“I thought—” Clint choked on the words, taking in a shuddering breath. “Today at the meeting when you said ‘nothing of import’—I thought—”

“I’m so sorry,” Phil said, his own eyes starting to fill. “I was scared. I didn’t know if you wanted—”

“I do,” Clint pulled back and stood an arms’ length away, expression serious but hands still on Phil’s shoulders. “I _do_ want—”

“I love you,” Phil blurted. He dropped his eyes to the floor, but left his hands on Clint’s waist. “I’d like it if you would be mine.”

And this was it. The desperate need in Phil to take care of Clint. Give him whatever he needed, and all the love he deserved. He felt it like an ache in his very bones.

“Sir,” Clint said, fondly.

The word was enough to draw Phil’s eyes back to the archer’s. Phil was struck with how blue Clint’s eyes were, then he was struck with all of the adoration shining there. Clint wasn’t crying anymore. Instead, he looked astoundingly _happy_. Phil’s heart began to hammer madly in his chest.

Which made him think of Thor.

 _Inappropriate_ , he reprimanded himself.

“Sir,” Clint repeated, drawing Phil back to the present. “You’re a real idiot if you don’t realize that I already am.” 

Phil’s mouth dropped open and then curved into the happiest smile he’d ever worn.

Clint let him gape and continued:

“Yours, that is. If you haven’t figured it out yet. You take a while to catch on.”

Phil decided that no more words were needed and pulled Clint into a deep kiss.

After a moment, Clint pulled away. He fixed Phil with shining eyes and said,

“I can’t _believe_ you just quoted song lyrics to win me back.”

Phil gave this teasing the only response it deserved and pulled Clint back into the kiss, claiming Clint’s mouth thoroughly. Clint moaned at the treatment and Phil pulled back to start pressing kisses into Clint’s skin so he could hear his sweet boy moan.

He sucked a particularly dark, claiming bruise into the sensitive flesh under Clint’s jaw and thought,

_Maybe not such a big fuck-up, after all._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments=Phil taking care of Clint post-mission.  
> Kudos=Author joy.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!!!


End file.
